


Wednesday Mistakes

by Brinny



Series: Pink Tutus and Hellhounds [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Mild Sexual Content, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinny/pseuds/Brinny
Summary: The right place and right time turns out to be the backseat of Dean’s car on a Wednesday about two years after the fact.(This would be howPink Tutus and Hellhoundscame to be. Beginning of the 'verse, so to say.)





	Wednesday Mistakes

The right place and right time turns out to be the backseat of Dean’s car on a Wednesday about two years after the fact. 

It’s messy and it’s fast and each time Dean presses his tongue to her (soft on the inside of her wrist and hard between her tits and fucking filthy against the cleft of her pussy through her already wet panties), all Jo can smell is cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. 

Jo’s jeans are down around her feet, hooked around one ankle, and Dean has one hand under her bare leg, with his thumb pushing to the bend of her knee, holding her open. She still has her panties on and his cock catches and drags along the cotton as he moves in and out of her.

“Fuck.”

“H-harder. I need— Just, you—you’ve gotta,” she half-pants. 

But his hips snap and stutter, already losing the sort of frantic-backseat-fucking rhythm that they’ve set up, so Jo shoves her own hand into her underwear and furiously rubs two fingers fast and hard over her clit because she’s wanted to get off since he smiled at her an hour ago. 

Dean comes before her, warm and sticky and without warning, then moves the hand that’s on her knee and pushes his fingers over hers, pressing them down rough and hard until she can feel herself coming, gripping and flooding around his cock. 

She swallows and chokes out, “Jesus. Fuck.”

Dean stays still, the heavy weight of him pinning her against the seat, so she can feel the sweat drip down her back, too hot against the damp leather. Lifting himself up, Dean moves his hand out of her panties and rests his wet fingers on her stomach spread out and up towards her ribs. His breath is warm on her cheek when he slowly pulls out and Jo feels her cunt clench at the emptiness.

Wrenching himself in between her and the seat, Dean drums his fingers on her damp skin and Jo bumps her nose along his cheek, kissing him. And she softly pushes her tongue past his lips, touching it to his. Dean kisses her back, pressing his thumb to the side of her face as he opens his mouth just a little wider and tilts her head back. 

She makes a happy, keening noise in the back of her throat and reaches for his hand to twist his fingers together with her own. She wants this too. She wants lazy backseat kisses and his hand in hers. 

But Dean pulls away.

“Jo,” he says, an almost-wince hidden in his voice. 

And she knows that almost-wince. She’s made enough of her own sad, sorry apologies in that sweet and not-even-close-to-sincere tone to know exactly what that almost-wince means. 

Giving her head a shake, she takes in the look on his face and it’s more than enough to tell her that all of it was one big mistake. Letting him kiss her in the bar was a mistake. His fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans and her hitching forward so she was riding his thigh was a mistake. The frantic fumble for the car door handle was a mistake. Him fucking her and her fucking him: all one big fucking mistake. 

“Don’t,” she says, trying for easy, but not quite succeeding. 

She shrugs, like she’s not really bothered by it all (because, really, why should she be?), and then pulls her jeans back up around her hips and snaps the button closed, trying really hard to ignore the sticky wetness that’s now trapped between her thighs. 

“Fuck,” he groans.

She can feel her cheeks start to burn pink (because, even though, really why should she be bothered, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t) and she tugs her bra back above her breasts and pulls on her shirt. Dean still hasn’t moved. 

“We’re both adults Dean,” she says. “I get it, okay?”

“Get what?”

He lifts an eyebrow, sloppy-drunk smile pulling at his lips, because he totally doesn’t get it. Bringing his hand up around her back, he lets his fingers slip underneath the hem of her shirt—drifts his hand over the smooth curve of her spine. She narrows her eyes. It’s a warning. 

“Don’t.”

Dean slides his hand out of her shirt.

Sighing, Jo runs her hands through her mussed hair, her fingers catching on tangles. With another shake of her head, thoroughly embarrassed now, because she shouldn’t have tried to make it something that it wasn’t, she sits up and reaches for the door latch. It’s dark and she loses her footing and stumbles out of the car and Dean lets a drunken near-laugh slip out from his mouth and he can see Jo sneer at him through the shadows. 

 

Dean doesn’t go back to the Roadhouse for a couple of months. Sam laughs and calls him a pussy. 

The next time they need to grab some information from Ellen, and really going back there is a last ditch effort after they’ve completely exhausted every other avenue, Sam literally has to push Dean through the doors. 

“Sam!” Dean near-yelps, something in between a whine and grunt.

Sam shoves him again, this time pushing him down on a barstool, and Ellen looks at both them with raised brows. She throws a dishtowel over one shoulder and presses her palms flat against the bar top, eying them with unsure scrutiny. 

“Are you two okay?”

“Peachy,” Dean mutters. 

At the same time, Sam says, “We’re fine.”

Turning, Ellen draws them each a beer from the tap and then walks out from behind the counter and to one of the tables in the bar and calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be with you boys in a minute.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, all sweetness and little boy polite. He nudges Dean with his elbow, smiling at him pointedly. 

“She knows Sam,” he says in a forced whisper, shaking his head as he takes a long swallow of beer. 

“How would Ellen know?” Sam’s eyebrows crease into his forehead and he turns around to see Ellen gathering up a few empties and wiping down tables. She smiles curiously at him. 

“I don’t know, girls talk or whatever. Just, trust me Sam, she knows.” 

“So, she knows that you fucked Jo, her only daughter, in the backseat of your car and never called her again and she’s perfectly okay with it?” Sam stops to sip at his beer. He looks almost thoughtful for a moment and then laughs lowly. “You fucked her and then just never called her again, Dean. Dude, I think if Ellen knew what went down between you and Jo, your dick would be hanging above the bar.”

Dean shrugs and almost instinctively drops a hand to his groin, as if Sam saying that Ellen might mutilate his neither regions means it’s gonna come true. 

Taking another long swallow of his beer, he can see Jo slip behind the bar, tugging at an apron to sit higher on her hips. Dean feels the alcohol catch in the back of his throat and a loud and choked cough erupts from his mouth, beer spraying through his lips. Jo looks up. Their eyes meet for an uncomfortable second or two, then Jo frowns. 

Leaning herself over the bar, arms tight and her head ducked down low, she drops her voice to a whisper and asks, “Can I talk to you?”

“Actually, we were just waiting for your mom.” Dean starts to jerk his thumb in Ellen’s direction, but seeing Jo gnaw on her lower lip so hard that he thinks blood might start leaking down her chin, he says, “Yeah, okay.”

“Storeroom?” 

Dean exchanges a look with Sam, who keeps his face almost still if not for the slight hitch of his eyebrows, and then slides off the stool. 

Jo walks behind him slowly, cautiously pressing her fingertips to his wrist and he can feel her touch through leather and flannel and cotton and down to his skin. It’s weirdly intimate and he’s not sure if he likes it. And just as he thinks it, she drops her hand to open the door, which she lets slam loudly behind them. The noise startles him and he jumps at the sound, tripping over some empty beer bottles and cracking his elbow down hard against one of the shelves.

“Son of a bitch,” he says. He frowns at the shelf and then kind of smirks at Jo. “Look, I’m sorry about whatever happened last time. I was going to call you, but c’mon, it wasn’t that big of a deal, right? We had too much to drink and I think that—”

“I’m pregnant.” 

Dean stops. Then he smiles and snorts and rolls his eyes. He shakes a half-reprimanding finger at her. “Yeah, right. That’s not funny, Jo.”

She tips her head to one side and purses her lips, nodding in agreement. 

“You serious?” he asks. 

Dean’s really hoping that she’s just trying to bust his balls. A little bit of payback or whatever. Hey, you fuck me and I’ll fuck you right back. But she just nods again. 

“So you’re—” he starts and then pauses, licking his lips uncertainly. He rubs at his elbow, because it still smarts a bit and, wow, is that the wrong thing to be focusing on right now, and then takes a deep breath and tries again. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Jo puts one hand on her stomach. Quickly, she realizes the subconscious gesture and moves her hand to her hip. “Yes, I’m sure.” 

“Fuck. How?” Dean asks. He shakes his head at his own stupidity, his fist coming up to his lips.

“Uh, I’m gonna guess drunk, sloppy, unprotected sex?” Jo tries to laugh, but nothing else comes out of her mouth. She clears her throat instead. “I just thought that I should tell you. Do the right thing or whatever.” Her cheeks flush for an instant and she clarifies, “For me to do the right thing, not you.”

“Your mom is going to fucking kill me.” 

“Maybe.” 

Jo stares at the floor, her eyes flicking over the worn floorboards and counting the gaps between the wood. Dean can see her lips move slowly, no sound coming out of her mouth. She gets up to about twenty-three before she looks back up at him and he kind of huffs over the silence. 

“Are you going to—?” He stops and sucks in a sharp breath. “I mean, if you want—” He stops again, sighing this time. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say and settles for a low, “Christ.”

“If I want Christ?” She quirks a brow at him and her hand moves back to her stomach, fingers scratching through the thin fabric of her shirt. 

Dean laughs uncertainly. 

“I’m keeping it, I think. If that’s what you were going to ask or whatever,” she tells him. 

“Oh. I mean, yeah, if that’s what you want to do.” 

Jo nods and then lets out a slow breath and starts to untie her apron. Dean can’t help but smirk and pull it out of her hands. 

“Gearing up for round two?” he asks. 

She narrows her eyes, clearly not seeing the humor. “No.” 

“It wasn’t sloppy, by the way,” he says. 

This, it seems, she does find funny. “Yeah, okay. Whatever, stud.” 

She smiles a bit now and Dean laughs too, because it’s just something you do when you get metaphorically punched in the balls with a situation like this. (”Oh, a nuclear bomb has just been dropped on earth? Ha ha ha. Hilarious!” It’s an awkward coping mechanism at best, but he thinks it works.)

“So, you’re really keeping it?”

“No, not really. I was actually thinking I’d let a wild pack of wolves raise it.” 

Jo gives a nonchalant shrug and tucks her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She’s joking, but from the way she ducks her head it almost seems like maybe she’d been considering something like it at one point. Probably not the wolves part, but maybe that she wouldn’t be the one to teach the kid to walk or hear its first words. Dean isn’t sure how to react to that, so he shrugs back. 

“Well, I’d check the lunar cycle.” 

“Funny,” she says. 

There’s light knock on the storeroom door and just as Jo goes to open it, Sam’s head pokes through. He smiles apologetically. 

“I’m interrupting, huh?”

Jo shakes her head and Dean shrugs again. 

“Well, Ellen says it sounds like an Intulo,” Sam says. “Probably one of the ancient variety, which is why we kept coming up empty.” He waits for Dean to say something and then continues when he doesn’t, “So, if we leave now, my guess is we’ll be back at the Super 8 by dawn.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean nods and then looks at Jo. “Look, I’ll call you and we’ll figure it out.”

“Sure,” she says, but her smile is pinched. 

Dean reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Go, Dean.”

“I’ll call,” he says, for a third time and pushes past Sam. 

 

“Pregnant, like actually pregnant?” Sam asks.

“No dumbass, the other kind.” Dean shifts in his seat and grunts. “Yeah, actually pregnant.” 

Sam laughs, shoving the map back into the glove box. “Dude, you are so screwed.”

“You think this is funny?”

Sam shrugs. “A little, yeah. It’s karma, Dean.”

“It’s not fucking karma, Sam.” Dean grunts again, hand coming down hard against the steering wheel. He shakes the sting out and rubs his knuckles over his lips. 

“It is exactly fucking karma. You fucked and now here’s your karma.”

“Ha-fucking-ha, Sammy.”

“Fine, it’s just simple math then,” Sam says. “The probability of you having a kid has got to be like, epically high.” 

“We had sex once. Real quick, drunk fuck in the backseat. What’s the math on that, brainiac?”

“Hey, only takes once,” Sam says, half-smiling. 

“Thank you Mr. After School Special.” Dean shakes his head and a groan-sigh-growl pushes out of his mouth. “Fucking should have pulled out.”

“Oh, man.” Sam laughs again. “How much of an idiot are you?”

“We were both pretty wasted, Sammy. Neither of us were thinking right. You think I don’t know how stupid it was?”

“Well, it happens.” Sam nods and it makes Dean wonder if his little brother is speaking from personal experience. He’s about to ask when Sam says, “But maybe if you spent less time staring at Jo’s ass and more time thinking with your—”

“You know what, Sam? Shut it,” Dean says, teeth clenched. “Or you’ll be walking back to the motel. With a limp.”

“Maybe Ellen can get a plaque for above the bar.” Sam makes a crude rectangle with his fingers and thumbs. “Something like, ‘Dean Winchester’s Manhood’.”

“She’s gonna castrate me, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, probably,” he says, nodding again. He clears his throat. “So, uh, how’s she doing?”

“Who? Jo?” Dean looks out the window and shrugs. “She seems okay, but maybe she’s really freaking the fuck out and hiding it real well.”

“Is she having the baby?” Sam asks. He stops. Adds, “Or?”

“Uh, no. She said she’s having it,” Dean tells him. “So, yeah, I guess so. Why?”

“Dude,” Sam near-whispers, smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re going to be a dad.”


End file.
